


Boris the Great

by Biscay



Series: Natural Turn [2]
Category: Home Fires (UK TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:09:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6538087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biscay/pseuds/Biscay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boris doesn't really do sharing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boris the Great

Most of Alison's reservations about taking in a lodger were baseless worries borne of living alone for too long: Teresa isn't loud, isn't untidy, and certainly doesn't bring men home. In fact, the only point of contention in their whole arrangement is that Boris still doesn't like to share. 

Teresa and Boris' disastrous first walk goes unrepeated, but he still huffs and puffs and pulls on the lead whenever Teresa takes him out alone, only settling down when Alison accompanies them. This rather defeats the purpose of getting Boris and Teresa out of the house so she can have some peace and quiet – although, when they are both gone, Alison finds it strangely more difficult to focus; the _absence_ of gruff growls and cheerful humming becomes a distraction.

(and honestly, of all the things Alison needs after twenty years of solitude, she supposes 'peace and quiet' is not one of them.)

Boris even protests when Alison tries to take him out without Teresa, which is completely unreasonable. But Teresa never minds coming along, happy to throw sticks for Boris and stand quietly to the side as Alison pauses by the village memorial.

Alison, creature of habit that she is, should find three to be a crowd, but it's actually wonderful to have someone to talk to as they meander along next to the high hedgerows that surround the fields leading out of Great Paxford. Sometimes Steph will spot them and wave, either from her tractor on the road, or from up on the fields, spade over one shoulder. Sometimes they both have to hold the lead to stop Boris terrorising Steph's chickens. 

Teresa is a city girl, and while her adjustment to life out in rural Cheshire has been admirable, there are many things she is yet to learn. This is quite delightful for them both, as Alison points out wildlife on their walks together - yellowhammers, old man's beard, shaggy ink caps - and Teresa commits everything to memory, joking that she can't have the village's 6-year-olds knowing more about natural history than she does.

Teresa is reaching into a patch of greenery to pick up Boris' stick and suddenly recoils. “Ouch!” 

Alison looks over in alarm. “Teresa, those are stinging nettles!”

“That explains the stinging,” she cradles her hand, gingerly flexes her fingers. “Will I, er, be all right?”

“Of course you will,” Alison says fondly, “you just need… this.”

Moving Boris' lead to the crook of her arm, Alison picks a couple of dock leaves growing a few feet from the nettles and hands them to Teresa. Teresa takes them but continues looking at Alison a little awkwardly.

“Are these for eating?” she says after a moment. Alison manages not to laugh. 

“Come here.”

Alison takes the leaves, tears them up, and rubs them gently against the small bumps that have raised along the back of Teresa's hand. Teresa's fingers are soft and delicate, and a shiver runs along Alison's body when she looks up from their hands to see Teresa's face inches from her own. Her thumbs still against Teresa's hand and the quiet, peppered with distant birdsong, hangs heavily over them.

Boris chooses this moment to lunge towards a wild pheasant, nearly pulling Alison over. Teresa grabs her arm to steady her, and as she catches her breath Alison can almost convince herself that her racing heartbeat and light-headedness are a result of nearly falling.

* * *

The armchair next to the wireless is firmly Boris'. Teresa learns this the hard way – nearly losing a couple of fingers in the process – when she encourages him to move one evening shortly after she arrives, as she and Alison settle in to listen to the news and the serial play that follows.

"Boris!" Alison chastises. Boris looks reproachful but doesn't surrender the chair.

"Where should I-?"

“I think you'd better come and sit over here by me,” Alison says with some amusement, “you won't have much luck there.”

The sofa seems a little too small for two people – Alison, so unused to sharing her space, probably isn't the best judge, though – and hands, legs and feet brush each other no matter how respectful of each others' space she and Teresa are. 

Alison mentions one evening that she maybe should buy something bigger and Teresa politely says “it's really no bother.” She tells Alison about the living conditions in her teacher training days; the time she and her fellow students stole boxes from outside a warehouse to use as chairs and the story ends with them both breathless with laughter. Teresa leans back to wipe tears from her eyes and Alison decides that the sofa is probably just right.

Some evenings, Teresa brings her marking downstairs to finish while listening to the wireless. Alison offers her desk, but Teresa won't hear of it.

“I'll only mess up your careful order,” she says. Alison wonders if Teresa has any idea how much she's messed up Alison's careful order already (and how little Alison minds).

Further disorder occurs one evening when, during a particularly dreary update on the war, Teresa's head begins to droop against Alison's shoulder. A few pages half-critiqued in red pen flutter to the floor and Alison realises Teresa has fallen asleep. Teresa has been working exceptionally hard recently, dedicating hours to after-school activities, planning class trips, and making provisions for the evacuee children who are expected to come and stay. 

The best part of Alison's day has become Teresa arriving home, brimming with stories about what happened at school today; how Stephen's spelling has improved, how shy Barbara led the air raid safety demonstration, how Katy, formerly the class bully, has been helping Richard with his art project. Every time, Teresa will realise that she's ranting (usually between three and five minutes in) and apologise, as if Alison hasn't been enjoying every word.

Alison sort of fell into accountancy; she found numbers much less confusing than people and managed to make a living out of it. Passion is a half-forgotten word, but as she closes her eyes and enjoys the gentle weight of Teresa against her, Alison finds herself wanting to remember.

* * *

Alison initially bought Boris for equal parts company and security. The incidence of crime in Great Paxford is almost nil, but she slept more soundly knowing that Boris was on constant guard downstairs, one ear always open for strange noises. In eleven years, the alert has never been sounded for anything more malicious than badgers and foxes, but Alison, who keeps odd hours anyway, has never found it a bother.

But now there is Teresa, up at 6am sharp each morning, putting the final touches on her lesson plans as she makes a pot of tea in the kitchen. She's fallen asleep against Alison on the sofa three times now, and while Alison certainly doesn't mind, she tries to be considerate of Teresa's general well-being and doesn't want her to be ill-rested because of her dog's bad temper.

They bid each other goodnight hours ago; “sleep well” a tired mumble, a brush of hands as they both turn to climb the stairs at the same time. Whichever creature has set Boris off must still be rustling around outside, as his barks are only getting louder. Alison sighs and pulls her dressing gown on over her nightdress, tiptoeing down the poorly-lit stairs. Moonlight spills through the kitchen window, and Alison sees that Teresa is downstairs already, crouching and whispering to Boris in the dark.

“Come on, what could possibly be the matter?” Boris' barks are unrelenting, “Alison is sleeping.”

Alison is touched. “Not any more, I'm afraid.”

Teresa self-consciously tugs at her pyjamas. “I'm sorry-”

“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about,” Alison says, “I'm sorry for this calamitous racket.”

She crouches beside Teresa and glares sternly at Boris until he lets out a long whine and retreats sheepishly to his basket. They stand up together, and Teresa looks apologetic; her hair is rumpled on one side, and though her face is half in shadow, Alison realises this is the first time she's seen Teresa's lips unstained with lipstick. She stares for a few moments too long.

“I must look a state-” Teresa moves to head back upstairs, but in a shot of courage, Alison grasps her arm. 

“Don't,” she says, “you look beautiful.”

Later, Alison credits her bravery to the darkness, to the liminal time between evening and morning, where their established rituals and careful unspoken avoidance of _this_ seem to fall away.

But truthfully there is little bravery in it; no chance, as she gently closes the distance between them and presses her lips to Teresa's, that Teresa won't respond, won't bring a hand to Alison's waist to pull her closer, won't lean into Alison's touch as she cups her face. 

Alison isn't sure how long they stand together in the kitchen, pressed tightly against one another, but it is Boris (of course) who eventually disturbs them, breaking the spell by jealously headbutting Teresa. 

“Boris!” Alison scolds, sending him straight back to his basket in disgrace.

Teresa's eyes sparkle in the moonlight, and her hair is even more of a mess (not to mention a few wayward pyjama buttons undone) following Alison's attentions. “I suppose he's still not used to sharing.”

Alison's smile is lopsided as she draws Teresa close. “Well,” she says, “he's going to have to learn.”


End file.
